


Road To Heaven

by Nisaki



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Sam, Canon Compliant, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, First Time, M/M, Office Sex, Rimming, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21912034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nisaki/pseuds/Nisaki
Summary: Dean Smith is composed, successful and never does things on a whim. He has everything under control. Everything except his lust for the tech. support guy in the awful polo shirt.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 34
Kudos: 190





	Road To Heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merenwen76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merenwen76/gifts).



> Written for Spn-Xmas exchange. This my gift to ArrowFoster. I went with one of your prompts, I hope you like this! (if you have an AO3 and want me to gift this to you, please tell me.)
> 
> Thanks to [Casey679](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casey679) for the beta, she was a great help. Thanks to the mods for holding this event again, it is one of my all times favourites!

Work is monotonous. It doesn’t need Dean’s concentration. His surroundings turn grey, and he hears himself talking on the phone like he’s listening to a radio on low, knows it’s cheerful words but can’t make them out. He works late. The building is completely deserted when he leaves.

He can’t wait to see his car, slide his palm against the smooth roof, feel the cool metal and the curves against his skin. He stops short as soon as he spies the silver Prius, and something curls in his chest. It’s oddly akin to disappointment. 

The steering wheel don’t fit in the curve of his palm, the interior of the car is too small. The passenger seat is heartbreakingly empty; he’s never had someone there. He bought the car during his first year in Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc., and despite the lack of details of the event, he always feels like he’s the kind of person who loves their car, who takes care of it. The truth is, he’s never looked at the engine of this car, and he doubts that he would know what part is the engine if he did take a peek. He knows it will look wrong, however, the engine, the colour.

The empty passenger seat. 

He doesn’t like the taste of Heineken. It’s a staggering realization. He’s been drinking this brand since he remembers, but lately something is nagging at the edges of his consciousness. The weight of the glass bottle feels wrong, the label against his hand, the taste of the beer. 

It feels different. 

_ Different from what? _ his mind asks him, and he doesn’t know the answer. Only different, like how his tailored slacks are different, like how his hair is different, and how his cologne is different. His bed is different and his work is different and his car is different. His life is different. From what or when, he doesn’t know, and it drives him insane thinking about it. He needs something new, something  _ else _ . 

The beer makes a funny sound as he drains it into the sink, one bottle after the other until he doesn’t have any in his fridge. He looks up some ideas about a new lifestyle, and the internet suggests he does a cleanse, so that’s what he does. 

A random, long drive has him passing a gun store, and he stops and examines the front of it. They probably have cheap things, nothing elegant, nothing that feels good to use. A ghost feeling of  engraved slide and ivory grips makes his fingers curl, and he gulps. He turns to the road and drives back home. 

It starts with that, and ends up with his rules turning almost ritualistic. He realizes that his mind is dangerous. It supplies him with the names of gun models and detailed descriptions of their missile speeds, calibers and best distances. 

He’s making salad, and the knife in his hand is the only familiar thing he’s felt in a while, but what he’s cutting isn’t right. He should be cutting flesh, cutting shallow then deep, twisting the knife inside to make it hurt good. Slide the blade in slowly, no need for haste. 

_ That’s right Dean, this is an art, take your time. _

The knife falls down, his hand trembles, and bile climbs up his throat, but he doesn’t vomit. 

His rules keep him safe, keep others safe from him. He wakes up exactly at six, showers in fifteen minutes, eats breakfast, wears tailored suits that he hates, and leaves his house at seven-thirty on the dot. The radio is set to a rock station, and he quickly changes it to NPR. Rock feels unhinged and dangerous, so it’s another thing against the rules.

He chats with his co-workers, smiles at Mr. Adler, and does what he’s told. When the day is over, he drives back to his apartment with an empty passenger seat and gritted teeth. He eats an unsatisfying dinner and lies down in his bed, staring at the ceiling and straining his ears for the sound of another’s breathing until his mind makes up a rhythm for him and lulls him to sleep. 

He repeats it all the next day, and the next day, and the next day, until he’s got it perfected, can’t miss a second. He’s got it all under control. 

* * *

The day ends at five, like usual. He’s stopped working until the building is empty – that’s unhealthy, and he’s taking care of his body now. Eyes on his Blackberry, he hears the door of the elevator opens and steps inside without looking away from the phone. 

Something in the air shifts and he looks to his right, then up. His eyes meet hazel ones. The man has a furrow between his brows and his lips are slightly parted. Dean stares.

“Do I know you?”

He thinks he asked, but it’s the man beside him, dressed in the ugliest yellow polo, has the stupidest hair and a ridiculous pointed nose. Dean wants to say,  _ Yes _ ,  _ you know me, of course you do. How can you even ask that? _ His heart skips a beat, brings him back to the moment. He clicks his tongue, says, “I don’t think so,” and turns his eyes away.

“I’m sorry man, you just look really familiar.” 

Dean feels panic growing in his chest, freezing cold. The elevator dings.

“Save it for the health club, pal.” 

The line is sarcastic and detached, nothing but a cool dismissal, but he hears it on repeat the whole way home. He can’t bring himself to regret it; there’s something about the polo man that freaks him out, that makes him feel caged and on edge. He’s only seen him once, but he knows it like he knows the sun is coming out tomorrow: He’s going to see him a lot more. 

They’re not alone in the elevator the next time they meet, but he can feel the man’s stare on him, intense and terrifying and he wants to snap at him to stop. The man is taking up more space than the other four people with them. Sweat slides down his back, making him itch to get out of there, away from the man’s gaze.

“Can I ask you a question?” the man says when they’re left alone.

“Man, I told you I’m not into the-”

“Dude come on, I’m not either, I just wanna ask you one question.”

“Sure.”

“What do you think about ghosts?”

“Ghosts?” Dean says, feeling his heart picking up.

“Do you believe in them?” 

“Ah, to tell you the truth I’ve never given them much thought.”

“Vampires,” the man blurts out.

“What? Why?” He shifts his feel, feeling the freak out coming closer. 

“‘Cause I’ve been having weird dreams lately, know what I mean?”

“No, not really.”

“So you haven’t had any weird dreams?”

The walls close in, and he wants out now. “Look man, I don’t know you but I’m gonna do a public service and tell you that you overshare.” He presses the open-door button multiple times like it will help, and he breathes better once he’s walking away fast. 

Ghosts and vampires might sound crazy, should sound crazy, but that’s not what’s driving him insane. It’s the man. The familiar width of his shoulders, how Dean feels right with his head tilted up to look at him, his voice and his lips and the line of his jaw and his stupid hair and the mole beside his nose.

Dean thinks about him that night, imagines him smiling, two dimples digging into his cheeks as he flashes his teeth. His chest feels tight. The next day, he’s five minutes late leaving the house, and he turns off the radio because he can hear Metallica in his head, can’t drown the sound out no matter how hard he tries. The passenger seat is mocking him, and he hates this car, he hates it so much he considers parking it anywhere and just leaving it. 

His carefully built routine crumbles, piece by piece. 

Sam, the man’s name is Sam. Sam Wesson. Dean can think of him as nothing but Sam. No last name, not this one at least. Wrong, it feels wrong. He finds out that he can hack into the company’s files, reads Sam’s many times and scoffs at what he finds. Nothing fits, nothing feels  _ right _ , and he’s getting more obsessed with a stranger. He thinks about him all the time, dreams about him, doesn’t know what to do with the heat under his skin and the unstable rhythm of his heart. 

The company sinks into chaos as two of its employees commit suicide. The second one he witnesses himself, following a disturbed worker to the bathroom, watching as the guy sticks a pencil into his carotid. He should probably be concerned by how unconcerned he is with the blood and the corpse, the reflection of an old man on the tiles. But the only thing that occupies Dean’s mind is the few seconds his eyes meet Sam’s.

He breaks down like an addict who hasn’t taken a shot in too long, his hand shaking as he dials Tech. Support. 

“Tech support, this is Sam.”

“I need to see you in my office. Now.” 

He freaks out with Sam sharing his space, babbles about his cleanse plan, his heart out of control and his breathing heavy. He’s not scared, he’s  _ thrilled _ . Sam is with him, and they’re talking about ghosts, and it’s so familiar and right Dean is giddy with it.  _ Finally _ , he’s finally comfortable in his skin, Sam by his side and they’re good. 

The case they’re working – case is what Dean calls it in his head – makes them snoop around the company, and they have a real run-in with a ghost. They stare at each other after it disappears, leaving them in a dark room.

“I guess that’s all that we can do today,” Sam says. 

“No, wait.” Dean feels that all too familiar chill in his bones, and he thinks  _ don’t go, don’t leave, you can’t go to… _

To  _ whom _ ?

After he thinks that, he realizes that another person would ask  _ where _ , but he feels a tug at his heart, something telling him that if he doesn’t keep Sam with him then Sam is going to be with  _ someone _ he isn’t supposed to be with. 

Sam tilts his head to the side, his hair slides over his forehead, his eyes wide like he’s hanging on to Dean’s words. He smiles despite himself, the endearing gesture too much for him. 

“We should go back to my place, see what more we can find on this.”

Sam smiles, and just like Dean’s imagined, two dimples appear on each cheek. Dean is overwhelmed with the urge to brush his thumb against each one, lick into them, kiss them before he kisses Sam breathless. 

“Yeah, man. Let’s do that.” 

They take Dean’s car there, and Dean would be afraid he might crash it if he wasn’t suddenly adjusted to driving while looking at Sam. His car is still small and stuffy, but it feels right when someone – when Sam – is occupying the passenger seat. He smiles, and turns the radio to a rock station. Glancing at Sam to see his reaction and finding a soft smile on his face, something that Dean feels he’s been aching for forever and never seeing.

They have fun looking things up, attempting to understand their situation and being confused but excited. Sam is more intense, more beautiful when he’s focused, and Dean imagines what it might feel like to be the target of such terrifying intensity. 

He wants to try, wants to reach out and touch.

Sam moves his head back, trying to flip the hair out of his eyes, but his messy locks fall right back to the same place. Dean’s heart is growing too big for his rib cage to keep inside. His hand moves without his consent and he brushes Sam’s hair back, fixing the wayward locks in place with his thumb. Sam turns to him and Dean slides his hand just lower, cupping Sam’s face. Sam’s eyes aren’t hazel, they’re not just green or blue or yellow, there are so many colours swirling in his irises, points of gold in green and blue. Maybe that’s why he’s getting short of breath. Sam’s eyes dart to his, then their gazes lock, and Sam smiles lopsidedly. One dimple appears. Dean knows he’s going to be sassed before Sam even opens his mouth. 

“Are you sure you’re not into guys, Mr. Smith?” 

Dean laughs, moving his thumb so it’s covering Sam’s dimple. “Maybe if you put on panties…” The skin under his palm turns hot, a lovely blush spreading over Sam’s cheeks and down his neck. He averts his eyes and Dean swears that Sam is considering it. Dean licks his lips, thinking of Sam wearing nothing but panties, lace or satin, all of his skin flushed and on display for Dean. 

He pulls his hand back and clears his throat, feeling like he’s stepping over a line just thinking about this. He shouldn’t be thinking like this about Sam, not Sammy.

“I’ll make us some tea, uh… before we head back and look for the DNA thingy. Okay then.” He claps his hands, feeling like an absolute idiot as he marches into the kitchen. 

* * *

Apart from Sam getting sprayed with the security guard's blood, they finish off a clean hunt. They’re both giddy as they head back to Dean’s office, adrenaline rushing through their veins. Dean can’t keep the smile off of his face, can’t get his heart back to normal rhythm. 

Sam is blabbering, when he turns, his eyes are glittering. He’s shining so bright Dean is both entranced and scared. He needs to stop, look away. 

“You should clean up,” he blurts, running to the small closet where he keeps towels and extra clothes, and embarrassingly, special soap and hand lotion. “Here,” he hands Sam the towel and his striped shirt and his mind supplies him with an image of the cloth stretched over Sam’s chest. Sam thanks him and heads to the bathroom, and Dean occupies himself with pacing his office back and forth. 

Sam doesn’t take long, the sight of him in Dean’s clothes does something to him. The shirt fits him better than Dean thought; they must share the same size. His breath catches in his lungs. If he moves now, he knows he will do something stupid. Kiss Sam, push him against the door and wreck him.

Sam looks like he’d let him. 

“Dean.” It’s a breath, but it sounds so loud, one word and it has so much behind it. Dean can hear it like it’s happened before, Sam calling his name in a thousand different ways, but never the one he’s craving to hear right now.

“C’mere, Sammy.” He opens his arms, and Sam makes a wounded voice in the back of his throat. He stumbles, crashes into Dean’s chest, and they’re holding on like they’re the only tangible thing in a world that’s falling. They don’t pull apart, just tilt their heads, no way to tell who moved first. 

Dean groans, the kiss something he feels like he’s waited for all of his life. He opens his mouth, lets Sam do whatever he wants. Desperate, they barely breathe between kisses, dirty, deep, hurried, frantic. Like they might run out of time. Like it’s wrong, and someone is going to stop them. 

It feels like drinking too many shots, one by one by one until everything is hazy. Sam is clear, however, made of vivid colours as the rest of the worlds edges to grey and Dean can’t see anything but him. He attaches their lips again, his hand pressing on Sam’s jaw, forcing his mouth open so he can lick right into him, taste him, memorize every ridge of his teeth and every soft, wet surface. 

His hands fumble over the buttons of Sam’s shirt, distracted by the way Sam’s fingers brush against Dean’s erection as he unbuckles his belt. Sam loses his shirt and pants, Dean’s slacks are kicked away, and he’s in his unbuttoned shirt as he bends Sam over his desk and drops to his knees, hands spreading Sam’s cheeks to reveal his pink hole. 

Sam whimpers, bucks back and Dean’s mouth waters. He licks a broad strip over the skin, relishing the surprised sound Sam lets out, enjoying the way he starts to tremble under Dean’s tongue and teeth. Dean pulls back, blows over the wet skin and Sam keens, opens his legs wider, tempting Dean to go further. He wets his finger with spit, licks around Sam’s hole as he slides it in slowly. It’s too tight, too dry with just this, and he’s not embarrassed about the hand lotion now. He reaches for it, squeezes it right over Sam’s entrance, rubs it over then inserts two fingers in. 

The choked out “Dean” he gets is the prettiest sound, Sam all worked up, his voice scratchy. Dean keeps it up, using his fingers to get Sam loose and ready, doesn’t stop until Sam begs him to. 

He slicks himself up, pushes his dick inside with a slow slide, both of them grunting when he’s all the way in. It feels so good he almost comes then and there. Sam hot and tight and squirming on his dick, his eyes squeezed shut. His hair is fanned out over the desk, some of it plastered to his cheek with sweat. Dean leans down, his chest lined perfectly with Sam’s back, and he licks over Sam’s nape, buries his nose in the hair behind Sam’s ear and inhales. It’s familiar and right and soothing, something he can’t describe as anything but Sam. It’s a part of Sam; therefore, Dean loves it. The smell of him, the taste of his salty skin, the way he feels under Dean, it’s all new but to Dean it’s like comfort, like finally being whole after living with half of him missing for too long.

“Move, Dean. Please move.” Sam’s voice is restrained. His eyes are open now, looking back and staring right into Dean. Dean pulls back, thrusts in slowly, picks up the pace little by little until he’s pounding Sam so hard the desk rattles. Sam flails, arms extending up, hands gripping the edges of the desk as he pushes back to meet Dean’s thrusts. 

Dean gentles his rhythm, slides his palm over the curve of Sam’s ass up to his shoulder blades. He tangles his fingers in Sam’s hair, tugs his head back until Sam cranes his neck and kisses him. He’s so close now, but he wants to get Sam there first, so he lets go of his hip and reaches around, strokes Sam’s dick with his thrusts until Sam comes with a shout.

It doesn’t take long for him to follow after, fucking into Sam through the spasms of his orgasm and filling him up. They stay there, Dean rests his forehead between Sam’s shoulder blades, panting against his skin. 

Sam groans as he pulls himself up, forcing Dean to pull out and stand up. Come leaks out after his dick, and Dean licks his lips, thinks about fucking Sam again while he’s all wet from his come. Sam’s hands frame his face, and he kisses him slow and sweet, flickers of tongue almost hesitant until Dean wraps his arms around Sam’s waist and hugs him close, kisses him deep. 

Somehow, they end up on the ground, Sam’s legs around Dean’s waist as he rocks into him with lazy rolls of his hips. Sam moans, throws his head back and closes his eyes and Dean leans down to suck marks over his gorgeous collarbones. Sam’s nails dig into the flesh of his back as he comes untouched between them, his walls clenching around Dean, forcing his pace to falter. Sam scrapes his teeth against Dean’s neck, over to the round of his shoulder, then bites down hard. The shooting pain mixes with the pleasure, pushing Dean over the edge. 

They take a while to calm down. Dean pecks Sam’s lips, feels Sam’s smile against his as Sam licks over the seam of his mouth, dragging him into a longer kiss. 

“We should keep doing this,” Sam slurs between their mouths. Dean hums, kissing him again. 

“I know,” he answers, thrusting his hips forward. Sam groans, tightens his legs around Dean’s waist.

“Yes, this of course, but I also meant the ghost hunting.” 

Dean hoist himself up on his hands, looks down at Sam. “You serious?” 

“There’s gotta be more ghosts out there, we could help a lot of people.”

“Yeah right, we could be like the Ghostfacers.” Dean pulls out. Sam winces. He straightens himself, looking up at Dean. 

“No really, I mean... for real.”

“What? Quit our jobs and hit the road?” Dean feels panic gathering inside him like clouds. The road, with nothing tying them down, nothing tying him down but Sam.

“Exactly!”

He can’t. He knows if they go there, he’ll lose Sam to someone. To something. He knows, feels it in his very soul: If they have the road, they won’t have  _ this _ . 

“How would we live. How’d we get by? What, stolen credit cards, diner food drenched in saturated fat? Sharing crappy motel rooms every night?” He cleans himself up with a towel, throwing it to Sam once he’s done. Sam catches it one-handed, looks down at it in disdain.

“These are just details,” he mutters.

“Details are everything! You don’t wanna go fighting ghosts without any health insurance.” 

The devil is always in the details, the ones he’s sure exist if he could just remember them. The details of why this happiness is stolen, doesn’t belong to Dean. 

Sam clears his throat. “Alright, confession.”

“What?”

“Remember those dreams I was telling you about with the ghost?”

“Yeah.”

“I was fighting them.”

“Okay.” 

“With you. We were these hunters, and we were friends... more like brothers really.”

“Really? You want to call us...  _ that _ after what’s just happened?” Dean’s heart is frantic, and he gestures at their naked bodies and the desk, trying to drive his point home. 

Brothers. Why does it fit so well?

Sam is still talking, but Dean is not listening. He’s getting dressed as fast as he can, dread filling him because he knows something isn’t right. 

A hand clutches his wrist as he’s buttoning up his shirt. Sam is still completely bare, but he’s angry now, worked up. 

“Look, all I know is: This is not who we’re supposed to be!”

“No!” Only Dean Smith can have this, and he’s so afraid this will fall over his head. “I’m Dean Smith, director of sales and marketing. I went to Stanford,” he hates Stanford, he hates it for taking something from him, something important, “my father’s name is Bob,” it’s not, “my mother’s name is Ellen,” it isn’t, “my sister’s name is Jo.” He doesn’t have a sister.

His head is spinning, Sam is yelling and he’s yelling back. 

“I’ve got this feeling in my gut, and I  _ know _ , I know that deep down you gotta be feeling it too. We’re supposed to be something else! You’re not just some corporate douchebag, this isn’t you. I know you.” Sam looks at him with watery eyes, begging him wordlessly.

“Know me?” He’s hurting Sam now, he can see it in the kicked puppy look, the sad frown, but he can’t help being afraid. “You should go.” 

He turns around, listens to the shuffling of Sam picking up his clothes, his heart screaming at him to ask Sam to stay, to fix this...  _ Take care of Sammy, take care of Sammy. Sammy, Sammy, Sammy is hurt, fix it. _

* * *

He worries about it right until Mr. Adler turns out to be a dick angel named Zachariah who fucking brainwashed them and threw them here to play monkeys in suits.

Fucking angels. 

The real kicker, though, is that Dean Smith was every bit as ready to throw it all away and follow Sam as Dean Winchester is. The dick angel had it wrong – he didn’t find his way back to hunting, he found his way back to  _ Sam _ , back to loving him like the sick freak he’s always been. And he’ll do it every time, not because they’re brothers, not because they grew up together, not because Dad told him to take care of Sam, but because Sam is in his blood.

This? This is too cruel. He finally got what he’s always wanted but it wasn’t him. Because unlike Dean Smith, the lucky son of a bitch, Dean Winchester can’t be in love with Sam. 

He looks at himself, at the stupid suit, at the office, hears the last words Zachariah uttered before he left.

_ Are you ready to stand up and be who you really are? _

Dean makes another bank account and transfers everything Dean Smith owns into it; there’s no need to waste good money, and the bastard was comfortable. Once he’s done, he knows he can’t stall talking to Sam any longer, so he calls tech support, only to find out that Sam has quit after making quite the scene. 

Not knowing where to look, and too scared of meeting Sam now, he figures going to the car is his best bet. 

Sam is leaning against the Impala, and Dean ignores him in favour of greeting her. She looks good, and he hopes she forgives him for leaving her behind for however long that dick trapped them in Sandover.

They don’t talk. Dean changes back into his familiar flannel and jacket, gets behind the wheel, and drives them out of Ohio.

Time ticks by. Dean doesn’t have the heart to turn the radio on. Everything Smith had been afraid of is swirling in Dean’s head. He knows what he’s afraid of now. Losing Sam, Ruby, angels, the impending apocalypse. 

“Pull over,” Sam says.

“Sam.”

“Dean, pull over.  _ Now _ .” Sam’s tone is no nonsense, but Dean can’t help arguing.

“Are you going to leave?”

Fuck,  _ fuck _ .

“What? No!” Sam slides across the bench seat. His hand is warm as it settles over Dean’s on the wheel. “Just, slow down, okay?” And maybe he can fight with Sam, but not when his requests are gentle, not when Sam sounds as scared as Dean feels. 

He parks the car on the side of the road. When the engine is turned off, everything goes silent. He sees in barely there reflections and silhouettes. Sam presses close, so close their noses nearly touch. His breath is warm but stuttering, and Dean swears he can hear Sam’s heart. His hand settles there, over Sam’s chest, feeling the frantic beat for himself. They stay like that for a while, breathing each other’s air, sharing warmth, until their hearts are calmer.

“Dean, I…”

“I was going to quit. I mean, Smith was.” 

Sam tilts his head, his nose nudging against Dean’s cheek. He licks his lips, his tongue catches on Dean’s lips. Dean closes his eyes. 

“I was waiting in your apartment when I got my memories back, was gonna try again.”

“Sammy, we…”

“ _ Can _ . We  _ can _ , Dean. I’ve always wanted you, it’s not... not new.” Sam’s lips brush over his with every word, and he’s done everything and said everything that Dean was too much of a coward to say. So Dean takes the next step, closes the remaining hair of space between them and kisses Sam. Sam lets out a relieved breath, his hands clutching Dean’s shoulders, and Dean wraps his arms around him and pulls him closer, as close as he can.

“We should keep doing this,” Dean says between kisses. Sam’s laughter is soft and heartfelt. 

“I know.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is very appreciated. I'm [Nisaki](https://nisaki-chan.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, come say hi!


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